


Copper Bluff

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tvrealm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's a bad wound," Hershel replies slowly, and Daryl drags his eyes away from Merle to focus on the old man. "I'm just a veterinarian, Daryl. You bring me a horse with a bum leg, a dog that’s havin' troubles divesting herself of her pups? I can help you. This?" The old man shakes his head.</p>
<p>TWD as a western.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Copper Bluff

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for LJ's tvrealm community, for a challenge to "create your own fandom realm with existing TV characters". I envisioned The Walking Dead as a western. In the backstory to this ficlet, it's 1858. Rick Grimes is the owner of a ranch, a former lawman who's now married to Carol and starting a new life as well as rehabilitating the "strays" he finds in town, including former town drunk Hershel Greene and drifter Daryl Dixon. Merle has been injured and has shown up at the ranch, bloodied and with bounty hunters on his trail.
> 
> * * *

Daryl stands near the open barn door, breathing deeply. The night is cool, the breeze carrying with it the pungent scent of the newly churned earth in the south pasture, the lowing of the cattle as they settle down for the evening. It isn't enough to mask the rank odour of infection seeping from the barn behind him, or to muffle the sound of Merle's pained moans.

He shifts away from the doorway when he hears the sound of footsteps, puts his back to the lit windows of the homestead.

"He gonna make it?"

Hershel glances over his shoulder, and Daryl follows his gaze. The straw around his brother is dark and damp with blood, staining the dusty ground. Merle himself has his eyes closed, his good arm flung over his forehead.

"It's a bad wound," Hershel replies slowly, and Daryl drags his eyes away from Merle to focus on the old man. "I'm just a veterinarian, Daryl. You bring me a horse with a bum leg, a dog that’s havin' troubles divesting herself of her pups? I can help you. This?" The old man shakes his head.

Daryl bites at his lip, fights against the instinct to put his fist through the nearest beam; to take a horse, leave his brother lying in the dirty straw and head to town, forget everything in the cheapest whiskey that Shane's got behind the counter. Feels like his body's thrumming with the urge to run, like when Hershel puts a hand on his arm he'll start vibratin' from the proximity to the live wires under his skin.

"I did what I could," Hershel continues. "I managed to staunch the bleeding, gave him something for the pain. Right now, we just have to wait and see."

Daryl looks back at his brother. It's hard to tell in the moonlight drifting through the slats in the old barn roof, but Merle's face looks paler now; the lines in his weathered face deeper. He watches Merle's chest rise and fall, and his own breath hitches. "You need somethin'? Medicine from the doc? I can ride to town—"

"No, there's nothing."

Daryl's already picturing the layout of the doc's little office, knows he can break in through the back window with its rickety lock. Ain't right, what's he planning, but he'd make it up to the Doc later. He's gotta do it, go back to his old ways. Just this one time. Only 'cause it's necessary. Only 'cause it's for Merle. "I can get you whatever you need—"

"The only thing that would help is Doc Horvath's expertise," Hershel says evenly. "Are you sure we can't send for him, son? I could get Glenn to ride out—"

"Ain't none of the doc's business," Daryl snaps.

"Ain't none of Rick's, neither," Hershel says evenly, "but he got brought into this the second your brother showed up on his property." Hershel tosses aside the damp cloth that he's been using to wipe at the drying blood on his hands; when he gestures toward Merle, Daryl can see the dark smudges of his brother's blood edged beneath the old man's nails and staining his cuticles. "He tell you what happened?"

"Ambush," Daryl says shortly. He avoids the old man's eyes when he speaks; doesn't want to give Hershel the opportunity to read in them the truth that he won't say out loud. Knows from Hershel's silence that he's figured it out anyway – hell, the old man probably knew the truth the moment Daryl rushed into the house and dragged him from his bed.

Ain't nobody ever gonna get the drop on Merle.

And Merle, he always did find it easier to take instead of earn.

Daryl's body tenses as he waits for Hershel to come out with it – insist on waking Rick, sendin' someone to town for the sheriff. There ain't no way he can let that happen. No matter what Merle's done, he can't stomach the thought of his brother locked up behind bars. He'll snatch him up himself, rope him to a horse and take off, take his chances out on the trail with his brother before he lets that happen.

And then Merle might die.

But the old man surprises him.

"I'll sit with him tonight," Hershel says. "I want to monitor his fever, and those bandages will need to be changed."

"I can do that."

"You can," Hershel agrees, "but I think you're goin' to be busy talkin' to Rick." Daryl opens his mouth to protest, but the old man holds up a hand. "What I said before is true. Rick's involved in this now, whether you want him to be or not. And it's gonna be his call what happens next, as much as it is yours."

When Merle mutters something in his sleep, Daryl's eyes flick toward him. Takes in his greying hair, the grizzled stubble on his cheeks. The muscled arms beneath the pale blue button-down that's seen better days. And he's almost overcome with the urge to kick Merle in the damn ribs, to take off his belt and lash him the same way their pa did to him, almost every single week after Merle left.

He's got it good now. He's got people who love him. People who got his back, not just pay mouth service to the notion and then leave as soon as they're old enough to take to the trail.

He don't need his damn brother. He don't need this.

He doesn't realize that he's fisted his hands, that his own muscles earned from hard work on the farm have bunched beneath his shirt, until Hershel lays a comforting hand on his arm.

"We're your family too, son," Hershel says. "Go on and talk to Rick."

Daryl lets out a breath. Ain't no point in getting caught up in the past or the way things should have been in a perfect world, 'cause there ain't no such thing. Just like there ain't no point in worryin' about what might happen if Rick don't take kindly to an injured fugitive from the law holing up in his barn. He ain't gonna know shit one way or the other 'til he talks to the man. He'll let Rick make his call. And then he'll make his own.

He nods briefly toward his brother. "Come get me if—"

"I will," Hershel says.

Daryl nods and turns away, is running everything through his brain and trying to figure out just how to explain everything to Rick, when Hershel's voice calls him back.

"Daryl," Hershel says, his tone reluctant. "There's one more thing you should know."

Daryl glances over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"He might lose his hand."

Daryl nods again shortly, walks out into the moonlight. Is halfway to the big farmhouse when his stomach roils and he lurches toward the fence, loses his supper in the weeds. Wipes his mouth with the hem of his shirt and makes his way to the house; wakes Rick and sits with him in the drafty kitchen while Carol sets the coffee to boiling.

It's not until Carol's fingers brush gently against his cheek that he realizes he's crying.


End file.
